


Like You A Latte

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, beloved tropes, coffee shop AU, cs au week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horrible bout of writer's block brings novelist Killian Jones to the charming little town of Storybrooke, Maine, where single mother and coffee shop owner, Emma Swan, proves to be the exact spark of inspiration he needs to finish the first book in his new series. (Coffee Shop AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s loved words from the moment he could form them, loves the power in them, the cleverness, the way that they can express, the way they can challenge the mind and create entire worlds. He’s always had a knack for them — for structure and delivery, for creativity and conveying emotions and clever plot twists — so it wasn’t very surprising, then, that his path had eventually led him into the publishing field.

He likes to tell stories, to entertain and imagine and draw people in with carefully constructed sentences into carefully constructed worlds — at least when he’s not in the worst bout of writer’s block he’s experienced in his entire life.

He’s not positive how long he’s been staring at his laptop, but his eyes are near crossing and he’s got a monster headache brewing right between them. He tries not to sigh and let his frustration get the best of him, but this is the mental block from _hell_ and he’s got a first draft deadline for the first book in his newest and highly anticipated (but hey, no pressure) trilogy arriving on swift wings, which he’s fairly certain he’s not even going to make at this point.

He doesn’t notice someone’s even looking over his shoulder until he hears the quiet, contemplative hum near his ear and he jumps in his seat, nearly toppling over from surprise. His head whips towards the sound and the last thing he’s expecting to see so close to him is _Emma Swan_ , the gorgeous coffee shop owner and second shift barista who’d taken his order earlier ( _hours_ earlier to be exact, if the sun now dipping below the horizon is anything to go by).

She’s blonde, and despite all of his poetic way with words, _of course_ he would only be capable of stating the obvious, but it’s the first thing he’d noticed the very first time she’d taken his drink order almost a week ago.

He had decided to go on an impromptu road trip from New York with no destination in mind, just the hope to clear his head and possibly get some writing done away from the pressure of his publisher and the hustle and bustle of the big city. He’d ended up on the New England coast -- which was hardly a surprise to him, as the sea had always soothed him as a boy -- sightseeing along the southern part of Connecticut and spending a few days in Providence. Boston had been next, then Portland, and he thought he just might cross the border into Canada and travel to Glace Bay, the eastern most tip of Nova Scotia for no other reason than to say he’d gone to the ends of the world -- or North America, at least.

Along Highway 1, he’d driven straight into a charming little town right on the water’s edge called, Storybrooke. He doesn’t remember why he’d stopped, just that something had called to him to pull up into one of the lots by the marina. He’d spent a few hours strolling along the docks, people watching, taking in the sights and the gorgeous weather. Wandering into _Hooked_ \-- a coffee shop with a view of the harbor -- was happenstance, as he hadn’t intended to go so far down the boardwalk. But he did, and the rest, as they so often say, is history.

She’d been behind the register that evening, a petite woman dressed in dark jeans and a black tank top, with long blonde hair. It had been hard to get past all that sunshine gold curling down her back and those curious eyes watching him, even harder to resist her dimpled smile when she’d pegged him for a tourist and had recommended the House Special -- hot chocolate with cinnamon.

It’s hard to get past the soft pink of her mouth today too, and the way thick, dark lashes frame her bright green eyes.

“Mmmm,” she muses once more, pursing her lips as her brow creases with thought. “No, that won’t work.”

He blinks a few times, pushes his glasses up from where they’d slipped down his nose. The smoky timbre of her voice as it caresses gently over his skin steals his full attention and it takes him a moment before he realizes that she’s reading the rough draft ( _very rough_ , for god’s sake) of his latest novel that he has pulled up on the screen of his laptop.

“I beg your pardon?” he croaks, simultaneously offended and horrified.

She sets down another mug of hot tea (his third cup in the last four hours) and gestures at the screen. “She’s a little flat don’t you think?” She glances at him, lips curved up apologetically. “I mean, I’m not trying to offend, but…shouldn’t your main character be more…” She sighs, brow pinching again as she reaches for the right words. “I don’t know…engaging? Interesting? _Badass_?”

At his continued silence, she pulls up a chair and turns it so that she can rest her arms over the back while she straddles it. He blinks a few times, eyes watchful and curious on hers.

“If you’re expecting people to read your book, they have to find something to be invested in. The story can only take you so far, you know? If the characters are boring and they’re not relatable. People won’t root for them, or be friends with them, fall in love with them...and they’re definitely not going to stick around. I mean, I think it’s awesome that you’re writing about a strong female lead -- God knows there’s not enough of those in fiction -- but if you’re going to write about women, write about _interesting_ women.” She shrugs. “Give them a voice.”

He doesn’t have a chance to respond because the bell on the door chimes, signaling the entrance of new customers, and she’s on her feet in an instant.

“That’s my cue,” she tells him.

She gives him one last look and he finds himself swallowing thickly. There are distracting little flecks of gold in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before.

“On the house,” she smiles, nudging the mug towards him.

Then she’s gone, but like a wisp of smoke, her presence lingers — curling tendrils around his brain that consume and intrigue and have him swiveling in his seat to watch her work behind the register.

\-----

The next morning, he positions himself at his usual table in the corner, away from the crowded spots in the shop, but in direct line of sight of the register. He takes the seat opposite his usual one for a change of pace, or so he tells himself, and if he happens to catch glimpses of Emma over the top of his laptop every so often while his computer boots up and he opens his draft for Chapter One, that’s merely a bonus.

She moves around behind the register with a comfortable ease, as graceful as her namesake, and he is fascinated by the way she so seamlessly takes orders, makes them, and hands them out -- never stopping or slowing or stumbling over anything -- all while maintaining constant friendly and warm chatter with her customers.

There’s a particular one that draws his interest, not because he’s _interesting_ , but because he’s exhibiting the telltale signs of _flirting_ , approaching Emma while she restocks some napkin holders. A strange sensation swoops into his belly, surprising and unpleasant and _definitely_ unwelcome: jealousy.

Emma remains as composed as ever, politeness ruling her features rather than returned interest and Killian’s never been more relieved. The man doesn’t seem to take the hint though, leaning forward against the counter and invading her personal space while giving her his best smirk. She turns him down politely, evident by the shaking of her head and her tight smile, then a little more aggressively when he grows a bit more persistent, his hand boldly reaching up to rest on her shoulder before sliding down to her bicep. Killian notices the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way her cheeks flush with her ire while her jaw tenses and her hands clench into fists.

He finds himself abruptly rising from his seat, intent on coming to her rescue, but before he can go play hero and save the damsel in distress, said damsel knocks away the other man’s hand, her fingers wrapping around his forearm and twisting at his arm. The momentum sends him spinning so his back faces her and she traps him in a headlock before he can even take his next breath. She says something to him, lips near his ear, and then shoves him forward towards the door where he makes a hasty exit.

Killian stands there stunned and more than a little impressed while an abrupt round of applause goes up around them, one that has Emma rolling her eyes with equal parts exasperation and amusement. She ducks her head when she tucks her hair behind her ear, checks flushing pink, then waves them all off as she returns to task.

If he’d been starry-eyed before, he is even more so now.

He moves before he realizes it, reaching for a notebook in his bag as well as for a pen, then sits and quickly flips to the first available blank page to furiously scribble some notes down.

_Tough as nails._

_Humble._

_Kind._

_Beautiful. Overwhelmingly so._

_‘Badass’_ (That one makes him smile.)

_Secret ninja?_

\-----

She treats everyone to a round of drinks, apologizing for the ruckus, and personally delivers them to each patron in her shop. He looks up from his laptop when a large mug of tea is set in front of him and he blinking owlishly at her as he focuses on her face.

And embarrassed expression.

“I promise things aren’t normally this exciting around here,” she says. “Sorry for interrupting your morning, I know you’re trying to get some work done.”

The bell chimes over the door and she’s off and away again before he can get a word in. _Damn._

He watches her glide around to the register, indulging in a little sigh before his fingers resume their rapid pace over his keyboard -- when inspiration hits, one doesn’t simply sit idle.

\-----

At the 3:00 PM hour, Killian breaks, removing his glasses from his face and rolling his neck to relieve the tension there. He’d written for six hours straight and was already well into Chapter 4 by the time he’d noticed his back beginning to ache from sitting for too long. He moves to stand then suddenly freezes when his eyes meet a pair of warm hazel eyes. There’s a boy staring back at him from across the table -- perhaps no more than ten -- his chin pillowed on his arms where they rest on the wood.

“Ah...hello,” Killian greets.

The lad grins at him, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Hi!”

He says nothing more after that, an awkward silence settling around them. 

“Are you lost?” Killian wonders.

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

Killian pokes his tongue into his cheek, contemplating him. “Can I help you with something?”

He shakes his head, smile still in place. “Don’t mind me, just watching the master at work.”

That makes Killian’s head cant to the side, but his next question is cut off by the familiar sound of clicking boots and a very exasperated huff of breath.

“ _Henry!_ ” Emma marches straight up to his table, hands on her hips. “Seriously, kid?”

“What?” he asks, eye wide and expression deceptively innocent.

Killian’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them while they continue their exchange, curiosity piqued.

“Don’t ‘ _what?_ ’ me, young man. I told you the coffee shop was off limits-”

“But _Mom_ ,” he whines. “I just wanted to meet him!”

Killian is promptly floored by several things all at once: Emma is a mother, this child is her son, and they both know who he is. His eyes dart to her left hand, the knot beneath his breastbone loosening only when he confirms that there is no ring where he’d feared there’d be.

“Not at the coffee shop,” she retorts, grasping him by the arm and tugging him from his seat. “Mr. Jones comes here to work, not to be hounded by little fanboys for autographs and pictures. Now come on, go finish your homework.”

“But _Mom-_ ”

“ _Now_ , Henry. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I wasn’t even trying to get autographs or pictures, honest!”

She ignores him, beginning to guide him away, then turns over her shoulder to give him another apologetic look while she mouths ‘ _sorry_ ’ at him.

“Bye, Mr. Jones!” Henry calls, waving with all the exuberance of a star-struck ten year-old. “Can’t wait for the next series!”

Killian offers him a smile, raising his hand to wave back. He watches mother and son disappear beyond the doors of the kitchen, and sits there for a long while after. Well, that was a rather interesting development, and he practically eats plot twists for breakfast.

He happens to glance at the last sentence on his draft and the wheels in his head begin to turn as a new idea takes hold of him. His hands reach for notebook and pen and he flips back to the page he had written some character notes on the day before.

 _Single mom._ (He scribbles out the period and adds a question in its place.)

_Affectionate. Loving._

_Firm but fair._

He turns the sheet and begins writing on a new one.

_Ten._

_Warm._

_Sweet-faced._

_Mischievous._

_Often gets into trouble._

Killian taps his pen against the page, studying the words he had put down before closing the notebook and diving back into his work. He’s got a few adjustments to make now, and none of them can wait.

_Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

A blur of motion startles Killian as he rounds a corner on his way back to his table from the restroom, making him jump with surprise when he almost bowls over the small frame. It’s a familiar face he stares into, one he’d briefly met just yesterday, in fact.

“Hi again,” the young lad says, warm hazel eyes dancing with mischief as he waves cheerfully at Killian.

The grin tugs up the corners of Killian’s mouth before he can stop it, incredibly charmed by the strong-willed child who appears to have a penchant for disobeying his mother. (He shares her chin too, a fact he’ll have to remember to write down later.) “Hello. You’re Henry, aren’t you?”

Henry’s eyes go wide at that, jaw dropping open in complete surprise. “You remembered.”

The look on his face alone is enough to make Killian feel like the hero of the series he’d written that Henry appears to be so fond of. Killian chuckles and doesn’t even hesitate to crouch down so he and Henry are closer to eye-level. He’s been at enough book signings and met enough fans to recognize the shock and delight that comes with being acknowledged in some way by someone they deeply admire. It’s something he’s still unused to, the bit of celebrity that has come with writing a worldwide bestseller, but he finds that he deals with it better in small doses. One little fan is easy and great, but a horde of fifty like a previous encounter flying into LAX a few summers back? Not so much.

“Would you like to sit with me today?” he asks Henry.

“Really?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, of course. I’m rather keen to hear your thoughts on the ‘Lost Boy’ series.”

Henry’s beaming smile is almost blinding, until it suddenly falls as he casts a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I’d love to, like, _a lot_...but my mom-”

“Don’t worry about Emma,” Killian shakes his head, smiling again. “I’ll take care of it if the need arises.”

The grin that blooms back on Henry’s face just about splits it in half, and he gives a soft ‘whoop’ accompanied by a hearty fist pump before he takes off running back towards Killian’s table. Killian trails behind, noting that Emma’s gaze wanders over to them almost immediately when they come into view. She frowns, green eyes narrowing slightly, and Killian scratches behind his ear, ducking his head down to avoid the look. He pulls his chair out and slides into the seat adjacent to Henry at the table. Henry lightly swings his legs, a bit of nervous energy radiating off of him as he gives another anxious look in Emma’s direction.

“So...” Henry says.

Killian folds his arms over the table and leans forward. “The ‘Lost Boy’ series, what did you think?”

“I loved it,” he blurts out, grinning when he turns his gaze back to Killian. “I’ve read it least a million times!”

“A million? My, that’s quite impressive,” Killian laughs.

“It’s amazing! The story of Captain Hook and how he was actually a good guy before a bunch of bad things made him a villain is _genius_!” he says, tone full of reverence. 

“Thank you,” Killian smiles, pleased by Henry’s ardent response. Both seeing and hearing Henry be so deeply affected by something Killian’s written, makes all the long hours and endless amounts of revision and feelings of insecurity over the course of the project completely worth it. “I’m flattered you think so.”

The fan feedback has always been an important thing for him to receive, as his readers are the ones he’s built relationships with through the books. He’s always interested in hearing what they have to say -- the things they liked and the things they didn’t, their favorite parts, etc.

One of the amazing things he’s discovered about the series’ following, is that they’re all the same sort of people -- lost boys and girls finding something incredibly relatable in his protagonist’s struggles and rooting for his triumphs -- and what he really loves hearing about most of all, is how the books have inspired them, or changed them, or helped them in some way. Beneath the surface of Henry’s sparkling accolades, he’s hoping to uncover the lad’s own personal tale.

But Henry doesn’t appear ready to speak of such things yet, his expression turning hesitant despite the calculating look that enters his eyes. Killian knows before he even asks the question, what Henry intends to inquire about instead.

“Is he going to be in your new series? Or a later series?”

“Would you like him to be?”

“He hasn’t gotten his Happy Ending yet,” Henry reminds him.

Killian smiles gently at that. “That’s a fair point, Henry.”

“But?”

“But I haven’t decided yet.”

Henry looks mildly disappointed, body deflating as his shoulders slouch down and a small frown tugs on the corners of his mouth. “If Hook happens to find something else to live for, something else to draw him back to the light, if he somehow finds _hope_ , wouldn’t you think it would be a missed opportunity not to see how that would all play out for him?”

The smile on Killian’s face blooms into a grin. Henry’s a clever and perceptive lad, pure of heart, and forthright with his thoughts -- all admirable qualities to possess at such a young age, and Killian finds himself growing fonder and fonder of him the longer he’s in his company. Speaking candidly, it’s a question he’s often asked himself since the end of the series, as there had been no resolution for the villainous Captain Hook, just the tragic story of how he came to be.

He is more than aware that the open-ended epilogue he’d written has left many a mixed opinion amongst his fans. They want the justice, the resolution, the neat little bow. Truthfully, so does he, the problem is that he has yet to figure out the particulars of it all.

“Are you still writing your twist on fairytales, at least?” Henry speaks up again after Killian’s silence has gone on too long, voice adorably full of hope.

He leans back as he nods. “Once I had finished the ‘Lost Boy’ series, one of the first things I thought about were other characters from other fairytales. If Hook had had such a beginning, what about the others?”

Henry listens with rapt attention, leaning forward against the table as if he were conducting an interview instead of asking a simple question. It’s quite endearing and makes Killian smile again.

“What circumstances had created Prince Charming, for instance,” he explains further. “Has his name always been ‘Charming?’ And what of Snow White? Did the Queen truly only hate her because of her beauty? Has there always been _just_ seven dwarfs? More importantly, what happens _after_ Happily Ever After comes for these characters?”

Henry, sweet child that he is, lasts about another ten seconds before he launches into a hundred more questions, rapid-fire style, and causes Killian to laugh. It's the sort of laugh that draws attention to their table and Killian catches Emma’s eye, pleased to find her gaze to be more curious on the both of them, rather than watchful on her son, and it’s probably silly, but he feels his stomach flip at the softened look that’s appeared on her face.

She stops by a little later, dropping off a small hot cocoa for Henry, a coffee refill for him, and a plate of brownies (on the house), while he and Henry continue to converse. She leaves as quietly as she had come, much to his displeasure -- for all his way with words, he still can’t seem to manage to have a conversation with her -- but he still finds his insides sighing over her a little when she smiles at the two of them before she goes.

He spends the better part of the next two hours chatting with Henry, answering what he can and keeping an open mind about the lad’s suggestions and commentary. It’s enlightening and refreshing speaking with a young fan so intelligently about his work, and by the end of it, the notebook he’d pulled out to jot down some notes is full of page and pages of anecdotes and ideas and questions to address in his story.

Later, when Emma slips off into the back, Killian gladly signs the large book Henry quickly produces from his bag -- a hardback collector’s edition of all three of his novels -- autographing with flourish and writing him a personalized note of thanks. Killian closes the book with a wink and a grin before handing it back to Henry, who smiles sheepishly and wiggles his phone at Killian. He poses for the selfie, draping a companionable arm across Henry’s shoulders, then takes his phone out and snaps one for his Instagram. They give each other a celebratory high-five when Henry returns to his chair just as Emma walks back through the swinging door and into sight.

\-----

Henry has taken to doing his homework at the shop -- after school, Monday through Friday -- sitting adjacent to Killian and keeping him company while he types away at his laptop. It’s a strangely pleasant routine Killian’s found himself in, getting up early, being greeted by Emma’s smiling face when she waltzes in at the start of her shift, writing for hours before Henry arrives and settles in to talk about his progress. He has to admit, he’s grown rather attached to having someone there with him, not interrupting but silently cheering him on, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that Emma often finds her way over to them -- either to refill their drinks, drop off some snacks, or check on her son.

Or to lightly smack Henry upside the head whenever she catches him sneaking glances at Killian’s laptop screen, her eyebrow raised in warning. It makes him chuckle, angling the laptop so Henry can see better while his own gaze chases after Emma as she flits around the room.

Despite having spoken so little with her still, he’s learned quite a bit about Emma Swan in the past few weeks. In all honesty, it wasn’t that difficult to. She’s very much the open book -- a fact, he’s sure, she would be quick to deny -- and it’s been a rather fascinating journey of discovery for him.

He’s spent many years in Neverland, metaphorically speaking, and if there’s one thing easy enough to recognize, it’s that she shares the same look in her eyes as the very one he’s written of in his lost boy, Captain Hook: the look one gets when they’ve been left alone.

It’s been inspiring adding these revelations to his new protagonists’ character chart, watching her really begin to take shape on the page, having a myriad of questions arise and wondering at how best to answer them within the context of the tale. Like little presents adding up to one big one. But even more enthralling is the unraveling of his muse.

The thing is, Killian’s always likened writing to the opening of a gift -- carefully untying the neatly laid ribbon of the world that he’s crafted, slowly peeling away the paper to uncover the details and taking time to truly understand the characters and their motivations and the world around them, until finally, the box beneath that holds the real treasure of a completed story inside is revealed.

It makes sense, then, that he would consider the exposition of Emma Swan in much the same way.

She intrigues him, not just because his main character is inspired by her, but just in general. It’s that look that gets him, all of the secrets he’s yet to uncover, but it’s other things too. The way she seamlessly brews a perfect cup of coffee while manning the register and still delivering exceptional customer service. That dimple in her left cheek that deepens whenever Henry comes barreling through the front entrance of the coffee shop. How she seems to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders -- he reminds himself to write down _Savior mythology_ at the top of a new page in his notebook -- but carries so much strength there as well. The way that she can knock a man on his arse with a mere twist of her arm (though it’s not nearly as impressive as when she does it with nothing more than a smile, and he should know, he’s been on the receiving end of enough of them). All that sunshine gold spilling over her shoulders and down her back. The sea glass green of her eyes and how her gaze lingers on him when she thinks he’s not paying attention (he’s always paying attention).

And alright, perhaps he _is_ a fair bit attracted to her as well.

But that’s an entirely different can of worms he’s not quite sure how to deal with yet.

\-----

Killian takes his glasses off, rubbing at his tired eyes and feeling ridiculously accomplished with the progress he’s made that particular day. Eighteen chapters in and he thinks it’s all coming along quite nicely. He sets the spectacles down, arms moving above his head so he can stretch and ease the tightness in his muscles from having been in the same position for the last few hours. He doesn’t even realize the lateness of the hour until he glances up and finds the coffee shop lights on low, not a single patron in sight, and a blackened sky through the glass windows.

He swears under his breath, turning his head to search for Emma and finding her curled up on one of the couches in the middle of the room with her iPad in her lap. She’s got her earphones plugged in and her hair adorably piled high at the top of her head in a messy bun. Gray leggings peek out from beneath an oversized forest green sweater and it makes him smile. Sometime between now and the end of her shift, she’d changed.

She looks warm and cozy, cuddly even, and he has to resist the sharp tug of want that settles in his belly, push aside the desire to gently pull the band from her hair so he can watch all that silken gold fall around her. In the deepest, most private part of his mind, he can admit that he’d like nothing more than to draw her against him and to lower his mouth to her lips to see if she tastes like the coffee she brews all day.

She must sense his eyes on her because she lifts her gaze to him then, and even across the space he can feel the spark and crackle of attraction that flares between them. Undeniable no matter how hard they attempt to dance around it. They sit there staring at each other for a long moment, then Emma breaks eye contact and pulls the buds from her ears before she sets the iPad aside.

“Hey,” she smiles.

“Hi,” he replies. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“It’s okay,” she replies. “I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked like you were in the zone.”

He smiles sheepishly, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. It’s something that’s happened before, but usually only when inspiration is fierce in him, flowing through his veins like something almost tangible. A restless energy that manifests into sentences he so carefully weaves so the story comes to life in his mind and translates to page. When that’s the case, not even an apocalypse could pull him from his laptop.

“Apologies, love. It was very inconsiderate of me. Feel free to kick me out on my arse next time.”

She stands then, offering him a polite smile and walks back behind the register. “Did you want a drink?”

“No, I think I’ve consumed all the caffeine a person should in one day.”

She reaches below the counter and straightens to show him a bottle of rum in her hand. “I meant the good stuff. You look like you need it.”

He’s surprised, not just because she’s got booze hidden beneath the register, but because she’s offering him to have a drink with her. He is unable to resist the yawn she hides in her arm and her own sheepish smile she treats him with as she finishes pouring the liquid. She holds the tumbler out to him, wiggling it back and forth enticingly, and his brow quirks at her.

“A nightcap, love?” he asks as he saunters over towards her. “You haven’t even allowed me the honor of a date.”

“A date?” she snorts at that, completely unfazed while amusement dances brightly in her eyes. “Please, you couldn’t handle it.”

He’s always loved a challenge, now is no different, and it might be that, coupled with fatigue and the endearingly sleepy look in her eyes, that makes him so bold. “Perhaps _you’re_ the one who couldn’t handle it.”

He stops just in front of her, wishing there wasn’t a countertop between them, and smoothly accepts the glass she holds out to him. His fingers brush against hers, and it’s completely cliched -- the stuff of only novels, surely -- but he swears he feels some jolt or spark at the contact. Even more unbelievable is that she notices it too, he can tell by the look that comes into her eyes, though her face itself does little to betray her. Regardless, it gives him a quite a big thrill to know that she shares the attraction he feels for her, even if she’d never admit it.

(He reminds himself to make a little notation on his protagonists’ character page -- ‘ _open book but only through the eyes, killer poker face._ ’)

Wordlessly, she touches the rim of her glass to his before raising the drink in a little toast and sipping delicately from it. He does not miss the fact that while she has ignored his advances, she has not declined them as she has with other men that have come into the shop previously and attempted to win her affections. He considers himself down but not out and he smiles while he drinks, watching her over the top of his glass.

His eyes widen as the spiced flavor of rum blooms on his tongue with his first sip. “Bloody hell, that’s good.”

Emma’s lips curve up again. She leans against the countertop on both elbows, the glass between her hands. “Looks like you’ve gotten over your writer’s block,” she comments.

He is far too distracted by the flecks of warm gold in her green eyes -- how they appear more pronounced in the dim lights of the coffee shop -- and is barely paying attention to what she’s saying.

“Killian.”

He starts, blinking at that. “What?”

She shakes her head at him, smirk tugging up the ends of her mouth. “ _Really?_ ”

“It’s not my fault,” he insists, grinning wide. She’s made his tongue rather loose tonight. “You’ve very lovely eyes. It’s hard to concentrate.”

Emma laughs quietly and as she goes about finishing off her drink, he thinks he’s just discovered his new favorite sound. She turns to set the glass in the sink while he shoots the rest of the liquor, passing his tumbler back to her when she holds out her hand expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, watching her move to set the glass beside hers.

“For what? Being forward?” she wonders, voice full of jest as she leans against the back counter and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Hardly,” he chuckles.

“I didn’t think so, Romeo.”

He finds he quite fancies her like this -- teasing, soft, just a little more open. “For imposing on your hours, Swan. You’ve been very kind and I never should have-”

She shakes her head, interrupting him, but he can’t help but notice the way her cheeks tinge pink. “Killian, really, it’s okay. Besides, Henry would never forgive me if I were involved in delaying the release of your book. I don’t know if you know this, but he’s a really big fan, and very eager for the next series.”

He smiles at that, hand rubbing at the scruff on his face. “In truth, his enthusiasm and company have gotten me through many story blocks I’m sure would have taken three times as long for me to work through on my own.”

Her expression changes them, easing into something that shoots his heart into his throat. “Thank you.”

His head cants at her in question.

“Just...giving him your time and attention,” she shrugs. “You don’t need to and most people wouldn’t-”

“I want to,” he cuts in, holding her gaze, hoping she sees the sincerity in them. “He’s a great lad, Swan. You and his father must be so proud.”

She gets a tight smile on her face then, something stormy that flashes into her eyes and he knows he’s touched a nerve. He can actually see the moment her walls slam back into place, and if he suspected before that she was a single mother and Henry's father was completely out of the picture, that look shadowing her features basically confirms it.

“If you’re finished, I’d like to close up now.” Her voice is clipped, tone guarded.

“Of course,” he replies gently. He lingers by the counter a bit longer, angling his body to watch her clean up her spot on the couch and move across the room to the windows to begin drawing the blinds.

The plot continues to thicken, and he feels as he always does when a novel begins to pick up momentum: _eager_.

Eager to stay up all night and study the text, to work out the particulars -- _Who was he? What did he do? When did he do it? Why was he foolish enough to leave? How could he have hurt them so deeply?_ \-- the only difference is that it’s not the author in him wanting those questions answered for the sake of a story, it’s the man.

_Fin_


End file.
